


What I Did For Love

by knight_enchanter



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, i'm sorry i wrote this I'm trash, mentions of gore and violence, nothing explicit but i need to protect more fragile minds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_enchanter/pseuds/knight_enchanter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doc returns from his trip to an alternate dimension to find Wash in the worst shape he's ever seen him, and it's up to him to nurse the soldier back to health.<br/>Canon-divergent after season 11, episode 18.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Did For Love

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to my tumblr account, when a friend and I challenged each other to a sadfic contest. The goal was to break each other's hearts (I'm still not sure why we did it).
> 
> It was posted the day before episode 19 aired in a sort of last-ditch attempt to avoid canon divergence, but episode 19 inevitably made it divergent. It's since been cleaned up for posting here, as the original post had some sloppy writing.
> 
> The title came from a showtune. I found it fitting. c:
> 
> For the curious, this is actually something that can happen when bones break! It's called a fat embolism. Death from it isn't too common, provided you are given good treatment, and out of all the cases that occur, symptomatic ones are actually rare. But I wouldn't have a story without it, now would I?

Doc’s not sure how it happens, really, but he’s certain he wasn’t disoriented and half-collapsed on the ground a moment ago.

He’s also not sure who the soldier in the green armor is, either, but he knows he’s ready to put a bullet in his head. He’s confused and his head is killing him - really, his whole body is, after being thrust back into existence so suddenly - but he’s got enough energy to flinch backward.

"No, wait, stop!" he yells as he raises his hands slowly over his head. "I-I’m not armed, I’m a medic!"

The soldier doesn’t lower his weapon. Doc thinks he might be sick at the amount of blood on him - whoever it belonged to couldn’t be in good shape. “Where the hell did you come from?”

"I-I’m not…sure?"

"Huh. So they kept their medic in a cube." Another soldier chucks a teleportation cube on the ground nearby, no doubt looking for weapons. He gets a few of Grif’s oreos instead. Doc swallows, tongue heavy in his mouth, and keeps his eyes trained on the ground, trying not to panic. There’s so many soldiers around him and they’ve all got guns pointed at him and it’s almost too much to take in at once.

"I was in one of those, I guess?" He sounds weak and he hates it, but he’s grateful he can still talk coherently. "Please, let me go, I’m not going to hurt you, I’ll just find my friends and leave, please just don’t shoot -"

"Most of your friends are gone." The green soldier’s voice is deep and it shakes him to his core. "Except for one. I was just getting ready to put him out of his misery. He’s earned that much."

"No, god, please, I’m begging you, don’t hurt him!" Doc’s not sure he could stop the stream of babble coming out of his mouth at this point, because thank  _god_ there’s still someone here, and he needs to see them right now and get some answers. Except this asshole has his gun pointed at him and he’s not moving.

He waits for the man to do something, anything, and the silence is so deafening he thinks his eardrums might explode from the pressure. He’s trembling, arms still in the air, fingers twitching in midair, but he doesn’t move until a moment later when the soldier lowers his gun. He lets out a choked sob when the gun at his head disappears, and the stranger motions to the others around him.

"We’re leaving. Grab any weapons you see and move out."

"But what about this guy?"

"He's a medic, and a weakling, he's not doing any harm. Leave him and destroy their radio tower. Leave them nothing to recover, should they come back."

Doc wastes no time, lunging away from the group the moment the other guns are off him, and runs towards the base. He can see someone’s crumpled form in the distance, and his knees almost give out again when he recognize’s Wash’s greying hair.

He collapses beside the man and lifts his head, gently, looking for any signs of life. His face is bruised and battered, his right eye swollen almost completely shut. And there’s blood, so much blood, and Doc again chokes back the urge to be sick. A rattled breath escapes Wash’s split lips, and Doc nearly cries from relief.

"Wash," he says quietly. "Wash, wake up." He shakes him a little by the shoulders and presses a finger to the space beneath Wash’s jaw, feeling for his pulse. It’s weak but consistent, and he lets himself relax a little more as the soldiers’ footsteps and voices behind him grow more distant.

"I’m gonna turn you over now, okay? I’ll be gentle, I promise." He’s almost glad no one else is around to listen to him talk to himself, but if he has to put up with Wash’s deafening silence he’ll fall to pieces. He rolls Wash onto his back and almost jumps out of his skin when he lets out a weak cough. "Wash?"

The parts of Wash’s face that haven’t been bruised into immobility scrunch in pain, and he lifts his hands to his head. “Doc?”

"You’re awake, oh thank god!" Wash lets out a little whimper.

"Nngh."

"What happened? Who’s the guy that did this to you?"

"N-Not so loud, Doc." Wash’s hands are covering his eyes now, trying to block out the bright sunlight and the pain behind his eyes (and everywhere else).

"Where are you hurt?" Doc whispers.

"Everywhere. Hurts to breathe. Hurts to think. Right ankle’s busted. Can’t see."

"I think I left my medical supplies in red base. You think if I helped you, you could make it inside?"

"Could try."

He slips his hand underneath Wash’s neck to the top of his back and lifts him gently, finding almost immediately that Wash is incapable of doing anything to help him. He grunts and lowers him, reaching instead for the soldier’s bruised hands.

"Hold onto my neck while I lift you, okay?" he says.

"Mmmm."

-

They’re not far from the entrance to the red’s makeshift base, but Doc quickly realizes Wash isn’t up for the trip when he has an incapacitating coughing fit after sitting up too quickly and gasping for breath a little too hard. Doc decides to save him the trouble, leaving him in the grass while he ransacks the base for his supplies and anything else he can find to keep Wash comfortable.

He returns quickly enough with only intravenous morphine and a needle, as well as a pillow, finding Wash in much the same condition he left him, and lifts his head to put the pillow beneath it. It won’t do very much for his comfort, he figures, but it’s a start.

"Whose pillow?" Wash mumbles. Doc chuckles.

"Smells like baby powder," he whispers. "I think it’s Donut’s."

"Mmm."

"I’m gonna take a better look at you. Try to get some pain medicine in you to take the edge off. Think you can eat a little?"

"Mmm."

He lift’s Wash’s hands and presses his lips to the bruises on his knuckles, taking time to trace over each one and drag kisses down to the tips of his fingers. Wash smiles a little, stretching the split in his lips, and they ooze blood. He doesn’t seem to care.

“‘m glad you’re back,” he says, voice rattling in his throat. “Glad you weren’t here for this.” He gestures to his own broken body, and Doc’s heart sinks into his stomach. He presses an extra kiss to the inside of Wash’s wrist.

"You’ll be okay," he reassures him. His voice cracks at the end. "I’ll make you better."

"Already have."

Doc lets out something between a sob and a laugh. “Don’t be corny. That’s my job.” He grabs the needle. “You’ll feel a sting in a minute, but it won’t last long.”

"Can’t be worse than this." Wash turns his arm up to expose the inside. "Try the wrist. Better veins there."

Sure enough, there’s a prominent blue line running down the center, and Doc doesn’t waste any time getting the needle in him. Wash shifts uncomfortably at one point, but he doesn’t make any noise. Doc tapes the tubing in place and drops a kiss there, careful not to put too much pressure on it. “I can’t give you too much,” he says, and he hopes he sounds as apologetic as he feels. “Only enough to take the edge off. Don’t wanna affect your breathing.”

"Mmm."

"Does it hurt to talk?"

"Mmm."

Doc sighs and rests his hand on Wash’s chest over his torn, bloody shirt. “I’m gonna take a closer look, okay? I’ll be as gentle as I can.” He presses down, gently at first, on his sternum, and Wash hisses through his teeth.

"My sides," he manages to get out, and Doc moves his hands down.

"Here?"

"Little lower - there." Wash moves the wandering hands to the right spots, high on the sides of his ribs. Doc leaves them in place for a moment, rubbing circles with his thumbs over the most vulnerable parts of the one he loves. The severe pain, combined with Wash’s ragged breathing, has him thinking the worst.

"He beat you here?" he asks for confirmation, and Wash nods slowly. "The bones have probably broken. I don’t think all of them have, some might just be bruised."

"Feels like shit."

"The medicine should kick in any time now. Then we can try to move you inside, onto a bed. Get your ankle some better support and keep you warm." He lays down beside Wash and brushes his lips against his forehead, dusting kisses across an old scar, and Wash leans his head into the touch.

"Missed you."

Doc’s heart flutters. He’s sure the phrase is meant to be sweet, but it breaks his heart. “Didn’t realize I was gone that long.” His thumb brushes the split in Wash’s lip. “Wish I’d gotten back sooner. I could have done something.”

Wash shakes his head. “Not your fault. Don’t think you could have done anything.” He smiles a little as his words trail off, his good eye crinkling at the edge, and he reaches for the fingers at his lips. “Pacifist.”

Doc lets their fingers lace together, gentle so he doesn’t jar the bruised knuckles, and replaces the empty spot on Wash’s lips with kisses. He tastes blood and finds he doesn’t mind all that much.

-

They make it inside red base a few minutes later, when Wash starts to nod off between slurred words. It’s a precarious balancing act, getting him inside while keeping the intravenous line in place, but they manage somehow. Doc supports most of his weight, keeping it off Wash’s bad ankle, and lays him on Donut’s bed as gently as he can. “There, how’s that?”

"Better than the ground." His head lolls to the side. "Would be better if you were in bed with me."

Doc laughs at that, a real laugh, but he keeps it quiet. “You’re in no shape for fooling around.” He pulls the blanket up over Wash’s shoulders. “Give me a minute to find the rest of my supplies. I have an ice pack that we can use to keep the swelling on your ankle down.”

"Kay."

When Doc returns this time, it’s with his full arsenal of medical supplies. If Wash had been more alert, he might have been impressed - instead, Doc finds him dozing. He checks the amount of morphine in the bag and pinches off the flow a bit to slow it down, not willing to take any chances with the soldier’s fragile lungs, and pulls out a small packet. He squeezes it and shakes it around, and Wash stirs.

"Wuzzat?" he mumbles.

"Instant ice pack. Pretty neat, right?" He puts it on Wash’s ankle, and the man hisses. "I know it’s cold, but your ankle’s really swollen right now." He presses a kiss to Wash’s forehead. "Go back to sleep."

Wash reaches out and grabs his hand. He freezes in place for a moment, waiting to see if Wash will speak, but he suddenly seems hesitant. Doc reaches up ror the hand that grabbed his and gives it a squeeze. “All right. I’ll stay.”

Wash pats the space beside him with his other hand. “Get in?” Doc nods and strips out of his armor to crawl in cautiously next to him. It’s a little cramped, but they make it work.

It’s quiet for a while, not uncomfortably so, but Doc can see Wash’s brain firing far too fast for him to sleep comfortably, even with the pain medication making him drowsy and one eye still swollen shut. He reaches up and cups his jaw in the palm of his hands, thumb drawing circles over the hint of stubble growing there. “Do you need to talk about it?” he asks.

"Dunno." He looks distinctly uncomfortable, and not from his injuries - more like he’s searching for words that he can’t find. His face twists more with each minute that crawls by, and Doc can tell he’s getting frustrated. He leans in and brushes his lips over his forehead, his browbone and each eyelid, across his cheekbones and nose. He’s not sure if his whispered  _I love you_ drowns between their lips, but if the look on Wash’s face is any indication, it lives to reach his ears.

"He wanted information. Thought I had it." He pauses, partially to gather his thoughts and partially to breathe. "Thought I knew where the others were going. Didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t."

Getting Wash to open up about Epsilon had been quite a struggle, so Doc’s surprised that Wash has found the words so quickly. He’s not about to complain, though, so he just nods as Wash continues. “Could have been worse. Could have kept it going for a lot longer than he did. Guess he thought two days was enough for me.”

"You’re brave," Doc whispers. It’s a fairly obvious statement, he thinks, but he can’t think of much else to say. Wash smiles a bitter sort of half-smile.

"North told me that, once." He pauses again, coughs, and continues, his voice cracking a bit. "After they pulled Epsilon. Said I was strong. Brave." His voice lowers to a whisper. "Wanted to hear that for a long time. Wanted to pull my own weight. Didn’t think it meant so much hurting. Naive." Doc finds himself at a loss for words again, but Wash doesn’t seem to mind. "Glad the others got away. Don’t deserve this."

"Neither do you."

"Think I’ve earned it a little."

"No, stop that." Doc’s a little irritated now. "I know what you’ve done before and there’s nothing in your past that could ever make this okay." He leans in, not for a kiss, just to feel close, but he notices Wash’s gaze move down toward his lips. "Please," he says, his voice losing its edge again, "believe me when I tell you that I know what you've done, and I love you anyway."

He loves the way Wash gets red in the face after that, the way he seems to every time Doc reminds him he loves him. He wonders, sometimes, if Wash was always so susceptible to that sort of thing. “I believe you," he says finally, after appearing to ponder Doc's words for a while. Doc leans closer and peppers kisses along his bottom lip, pausing to give the split there a little extra attention, and Wash reaches up and pulls on his shoulder to get him to move closer.

"Stay a little longer?"

-

They stay in bed together for a long time after that. Wash falls into a light sleep eventually, stirring occasionally to stretch his aching muscles as carefully as he can, though it invariably leads to bouts of hacking coughs; Doc, a light sleeper as it is, greets him with a kiss each time and lulls him back to sleep with whispered nonsense in his ear. The pattern continues well past sunset until Doc regretfully pulls himself from the warm bed to search for food. He’s got emergency meal packs in his supplies, but he’s not sure how long they’ll last.

A thorough examination of the base reveals more standard military rations, and near Grif’s bed there’s an abundance of junk food. Where the man found it, he wasn’t sure, but he’s not complaining. He hauls some of the food back to Wash’s side, where he’s still dozing quietly.

"Wash," he says, gently shaking the man’s shoulders. "Come on, you need to eat."

Wash stretches a little, opens his eyes, and immediately launches into a violent coughing fit. Doc helps him sit up and rubs his back, watching him anxiously when he can’t seem to catch his breath. “You all right?” Wash nods, but he doesn’t stop coughing for a long time. He slumps against Doc weakly when he’s finished, breathing labored and almost painful-sounding. Doc presses his cheek to his forehead. It’s warm, and his face is flushed.

"You’ve got a bit of a fever," he says. Wash grunts in response. "Here, eat this. Tastes like sawdust, but it’ll keep you going." He presses a packaged ration into Wash’s hand and laughs quietly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside him. "The label says beef teriyaki. Let me know if it really tastes like that. I’m gonna give the chicken breast a try."

"Mmm." Wash eats silently for a few moments before lifting his head to look at Doc. "Sawdust with teriyaki sauce."

Doc laughs. “Knew it.” He bites into his own meal and eats with Wash in comfortable silence for a long while. Wash eventually sets his food down and rests his head on Doc’s shoulder. His breathing has slowed, but it’s shallow, and Doc can hear rattling in his chest. He frowns.

"Mind if I take another look at you?"

"Mmkay." Wash’s voice rattles weakly in his throat. Doc leans him back gently onto his pillow and digs through his supplies to find a stethoscope. When he finds it, he pushes Wash’s shirt up out of the way and presses it to his skin. "Breathe as deep as you can."

Wash tries, but it’s enough to propel him into another coughing attack. Doc’s about to lower his shirt again when a small red blemish catches his eye, and he pushes it up further; more skin reveals a smattering of red dots all over his upper body, and Doc feels an overwhelming sense of dread sink onto his shoulders. He must look as miserable as he feels, because as soon as Wash’s coughing subsides, he throws him a questioning, if exhausted, look. “You look concerned.”

Doc gives him a shakey smile. He's almost embarrassed, really, at how transparent he is. "It's nothing," he says quietly. His voice rises and cracks a little at the end, and Wash stares at him with his one good eye. "It's nothing, Wash, try to go back to sleep, okay? You're fine. I'll be right back, I need to -"

Wash reaches for his hand and holds him back as he turns to leave the room. "Doc." His voice is quiet, but it's hard and leaves no room for lies. It shakes Doc to his core, and he knows if he turns around again and looks in Wash's eyes, he's going to fall apart, and he can't afford to do that, not now.

"Wash, please..." He'll beg if he has to, anything to keep Wash from learning what he's hiding, but he's starting to break apart, and the way Wash's cold fingers are squeezing his own will be the death of him.

"What's happening to me?"

Doc draws his hand from Wash's tight grip carefully, pulling the stethescope from his ears and staring at the floor. "You have a rash."

"Like chicken pox?" The relief in Wash's voice is evident, and it's almost enough to bring Doc to his knees.

“Sometimes when bones break,” he explains, voice cracking again, “things go wrong.” He turns to face Wash again, but he's still not looking him in the eyes, choosing instead to focus on the other parts of him that he loves just as much, knowing they won't break him down. "It's why you have this rash, and your fever, and you keep coughing so much."

Wash looks a little confused, but mostly disturbed. “Thought that was from my broken ribs.”

"I thought so too."

"What do we do?"

Doc sits on the edge of his bed again, hunched over and picking anxiously at a loose thread in the blanket covering Wash. "Soon you'll lose the ability to breathe on your own. You need a hospital." His chest tightens. "We're in the middle of nowhere. Outside's a wreck, our tower's down and I have no way to fix it. And you can barely walk."

Wash is quiet, at least for a little while, and Doc is content to let him ponder his fate in silence, focusing instead on trying not to cry. He doesn't realize he's losing the battle until Wash's hand reaches up to wipe tears from his cheek.

"I'm dying." There's a tense sort of resignation in his voice, and Doc chokes as a sob finally tears itself out of his lungs. "How long?"

"I don't know. Not long. A few hours, maybe." He leans his face into the palm of Wash's hand and kisses him once, twice, three times, anything to show him he loves him; it's no use trying to stop his tears now, the way they spill heavily from his eyes and burn themselves into his cheeks and Wash's skin like acid. "I'm sorry, Wash, I'm so sorry," he cries, and just like that, his control is gone. He’s not sure when he’ll get it back, or even if he will. "If I’d found a way to come back, if I hadn’t been caught in that stupid cube-"

"Frank." Wash is calm, almost surprisingly so. "Not your fault. Never your fault." He pulls him closer, and Doc obliges, crawling back under the covers and curling around him. Wash gives him a genuine smile, as much as he can. "Never thought I’d be happy after freelancer." He leans in close, breath heavy in his lungs, and lets out a sigh. "Found you, though. Happy again. So happy."

Doc gives him a watery smile. There’s a fist around his heart and it’s growing tighter; in the back of his mind, he wonders if it might squeeze the life out of him, too. He closes the distance between them and presses a kiss to Wash’s cheeks, his chin, and finally his lips, clinging to him like he's got moments to live, rather than hours.

When he pulls away, Wash starts to cough again, and his face contorts in pain the longer he continues. Doc holds onto him, rubbing circles into his back beneath his shirt, but Wash looks terrified, hands clutching almost painfully at Doc’s shoulders as he tries desperately to clear his lungs.

“It’s all right, David,” he coos softly, “I’ve got you, I’m right here, you’re okay.” Except he’s not okay; in fact, even as his coughs subside, he still looks like he’s in a significant amount of pain. Wash gestures to the tubes connecting him to his morphine, and Doc wastes no time, increasing the dose as much as he safely can.

“Just give it a little bit, you’ll start feeling better soon,” he says, but Wash shakes his head.

“Can’t breathe,” he wheezes. “Please. Help. Can’t go. Like this.” He waves his hand towards the medicine again, and it hits Doc like a punch in the gut.

“No, god, please,” he cries, tears falling anew. “I can’t, please don’t leave me like this, don’t make me…” He lowers his head again, his free hand slamming over his mouth to stifle the sobs ripping out of his lungs, but then Wash turns to look at him again, reaching for the hand clamped over his lips, and he can’t hold back his cries anymore as he buries his face into the palm of that bruised hand.

"I’m sorry," Wash manages after a moment.

"No, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Doc gathers him in his arms, holding him as tightly as he dares to without causing him any more pain. "I won’t let you hurt anymore.” He reaches for the tube connecting him to his morphine supply and unblocks the flow completely, resting his head in the space between Wash’s neck and shoulder. It won’t be long, he knows, and he tightens his hold on Wash’s shirt.

"Love you."

It’s soft, and Doc almost doesn’t catch it, but when he looks up, Wash is smiling at him, a sleepy sort of smile. “Tell me,” he whispers, his words slurring together a little bit in the middle. Doc presses a kiss to the tear-burned junction of his jaw and neck.

"I love you," he chokes out. "Always love you, David."

It’s all he can bring himself to say at the end, confessing his love over and over like he’s praying, and when Wash’s mind grows dark, it’s to the sound of his own name escaping Doc’s lips.

 


End file.
